


pretty woman

by thefudge



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Fucked Up, Gothic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, a rose for emily vibes, ost: doja cat - freak, ost: roy orbison - pretty woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24921301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Somehow, she has distilled his nightmares into their purest expression. The vintage is just right.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale, with a helping of Marta/Harlan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 69





	pretty woman

**Author's Note:**

> remember that longer oneshot i promised yall? yeah, i started writing that and then...somehow it turned into this. i wasn't expecting THIS. but sometimes the story writes ME, if you know what i mean. hope you enjoy this really fucked-up odyssey!

It’s kind of embarrassing that his first conscious words are a garbled, soft-spoken cry. “Grandpa Harlan?”

Even to his ears he sounds ridiculous. Too much like the child he never was.

“No. Not Harlan.”

He knows that voice. He heard it in solitary sometimes. Not that he got sent there often. He was a good boy. But even good boys have their bad days.

It’s different when it’s real – when the voice has a body to go with it.

“Marta?”

Again, too vulnerable, too needy. He makes an effort to see, but she must have pulled down all the blinds.

“Shh…lie back down. You’ve got a fever,” she says, and her deliciously cool hands frame his forehead and gently force him to recline, pressing him into the pillow, almost smothering him.

Ransom saves his oxygen. He falls asleep.

The spoon rattles against his teeth. He opens his mouth halfheartedly. He has no appetite. His throat feels like a coal shaft. He can barely swallow.

“You’re not doing so well,” Marta ascertains and there’s tenderness in her voice, honeyed sympathy. She’s sitting at his side, feeding him, watching him carefully.

She looks…well, she looks the same.

He bites down on the spoon and stares at those plump lips that haven’t lost a single shade of pink. He imagines eating them, scooping them up on a summer’s day like strawberry ice cream. What an angry red mess that would make. Because that’s how desire starts, wanting to break a pretty girl’s mouth. He’s older now, but not that much older. He hasn't grown wiser. If anything, he's just angrier, which makes him stupider, which stokes desire to a pitch. He thinks of Harlan. He thinks of his grandfather’s gruesome plots, the violence he inflicted on his heroines, even as they usually triumphed. People have all sorts of outlets.

So, what’s hers?

Marta watches him eat. Yogurt dribbles down his chin. She quickly fetches a sanitary napkin and wipes him thoroughly. Ransom’s eyes follow her movements.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Marta busies herself pouring him a glass of water. “I always get thirsty after I eat dairy, don’t you?”

He thinks maybe he hasn't heard her right. 

She brings the glass to his mouth. She touches his jaw. “Open wider, please.”

She sounds like the perfect little nurse, the loving caregiver whose sole purpose is to make you comfortable, ease your pain.

She holds his face so that he can’t move, forcing the water down his throat in big gulps. Ransom coughs a little.

But she’s right. It’s refreshing.

She wipes him again. Her eyes have a milky sheen, and it makes him think of babies and wet-nurses, and suddenly he’s staring at her breasts under her “I hate Mondays” T-shirt. It looks like an old T-shirt, some quirky family heirloom bought at Walmart.

“Why am I here?” he asks, forcing his eyes back to her face.

“You’re ill. I’m taking care of you.”

“How did I get here?”

“You don’t remember? I came to take you home on release day. I drove you back here. You fell asleep in the car. I think you’ve been ill for a while.”

It sounds perfectly reasonable, the way she says it. But it’s not, it’s can’t be that simple. Why can’t he remember? Why did he fall asleep in the car?

And this is not home anymore. It's her house. 

Marta removes the tray of food and walks out of the room, but he can hear her voice down the hallway.

“I’m going to come back with your medicine.”

Ransom tries to pull the covers off him, but he feels too weak to get up. He rests his hand on the nightstand. His fingers tremble. He stares at his knuckles. The lines have deepened, the crevices pink with excess blood. Not from fighting. No, from scrubbing floors. He always did his chores, took extra shifts. That’s how he got out early.

And then, as he’s thinking this, he also thinks, _she drugged me._

The sting comes gently, just like her. The back of his nape prickles. She’s so deft, so quiet. She’s already shot him a strong dose of blessed opiates. She swabs the spot with alcohol and breathes on it, to cool it off. Ransom groans, tries to reach for her, yank her hair, her chin, gnash those lips between his teeth like cherry pits, but Marta is already moving away, floating on a little cloud, it seems, all the way to heaven.

The music is coming from downstairs. Snappy, bouncy, flirty, you want to tap your foot to it, a man calls for “mercy” and suddenly he knows the song.

_Pretty woman...walking down the street..._

He untangles the covers to the smug rhythm of Roy Orbison’s hit song. He clambers out of bed like a broken toy, limbs askew, feet skidding on the floor, joints squeaking. He can’t quite walk. He crawls. It feels like sleep-walking. He doesn’t know how he makes it out of the room or down the hall or halfway down the stairs, but there’s saliva on his chin and hot sweat makes his eyelids heavy and the song keeps playing. His hands hold onto the banister, body sliding down the steps.

He stares at her dancing.

She’s a rambunctious child in her panties and T-shirt, bare legs like taffy sticks. She ruffles her hair and makes faces at someone he can't see and slides back and forth, pert little ass sticking out like candy from a gumball machine. And he’s high as fuck and blubbering and bleary-eyed and maybe a little turned on, but he’d like an explanation, some kind of narrative.

But he doesn’t get that.

Instead, his grandfather.

Harlan steps into view like furniture come alive and he grabs Marta by the waist, spinning her to the rhythm, sweeping her across the room. He’s always been a great dancer, even when he couldn't quite pull it off anymore. He presses Marta’s body to his chest and lifts her bare leg up, hand on her thigh, jutting her hips forward, and Ransom swallows bile as he sees the little nurse dip her head back in a fake swoon so that the line of her throat is swan-like and bare for him, and Harlan laughs throatily and reels her in and kisses her fully on the lips with tongue, without shame and – Ransom issues a gurgled scream and – _mercy,_ the song goes. 

“Were you dancing last night?”

Marta’s hand pauses. He can see her bare wrist. She has treated herself to a tastefully expensive watch. Nothing too flashy. Sensible, sturdy. He knows the brand. He bought it for his mom when she turned fifty. She hated it. 

“I heard the music,” he adds casually, watching her intently.

“There was no music. I was studying.”

“Studying?”

“History of Art. I’m almost done with my classes.”

“Ah. You’re _that_ kind of rich,” he drawls, forcing himself to sit up. He won’t show his cards. He won’t lash out. He’ll act like he always does, try to rile her up. 

“What kind?”

“The kind who thinks useless degrees will give them the right pedigree. But it mostly makes them look like assholes.”

“I suppose you would know,” she says amiably, like they’re sharing a joke.

Ransom smiles. “Gonna knock me out again?”

“Knock you out?”

“Is that how you get your kicks these days? I mean, I guess I’m flattered, but you could just ask.”

Marta blinks. That baby whore mouth puckers up so lovingly. “Ransom. Are you implying that I take advantage of you when you are not awake?”

When she says it like that it sounds ridiculous. Inconceivable, really.

He lifts his chin. “Yes.”

Marta shakes her head. “I see prison hasn't changed you. You’ve still got a sick mind. But I guess it’s the fever.”

“I don’t have a fever,” he grits.

She leans closer, sweet milky breath fogging his face. “But you feel very warm.”

Ransom inhales. He reaches out to grab her arm and she inserts the syringe right in the jugular, not too fast and not too slow, making it last, cradling him to her chest.

“Nothing bad will happen to you,” she coos as she drops his head on the pillow.

He froths at the mouth. Big worms of saliva and gastric acid slithering out of his throat like proof of what he is inside, but she wipes it all away and stuffs the refuse of his body back into his mouth.

He feels a weight on his chest.

When he manages to open his eyes, there’s the crown of her head. Resting on his chest.

He’s always liked her forehead, vaulted and ancient-looking, like she’s the secret bastard daughter of a great bloodline, only she’s fresh, not stinking with inbreeding and rotten whiskey breath.

She looks up at him. Kitten eyes.

Ransom lifts his hand, but his fingers only graze a few locks of hair.

She smiles, cheeks turning rosy. She licks her rosy lips. She’s the pink at the back of his throat.

“Marta…” he rasps. “What are…you gonna do?”

 _Are you going to kill me?_ he wants to ask, because his mind always jumps to the final move, the final thing people do. Because that’s what _he_ would do. That’s why he often lost when he should have won.

“I’m going to give you a bath later,” she says, nestling her nose in his chest. “You kind of stink.”

He wants to laugh. How fucking quaint. 

“Did you ever…give Harlan baths?”

Marta makes a face. “I was not that kind of nurse.”

“What kind of nurse are you?”

Every time he takes a breath, her head rises and lowers. She bites her lower lip. “I’m a friend.”

“A…friend.”

“A friendly nurse,” she adds, blowing a lock of hair out of her eye.

Ransom smiles. “I can be friendly too. Just let me stay awake and I’ll show you.”

Marta wags her finger impishly. “Not yet. I don’t trust you yet.”

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly. “Well...too much.”

She giggles nervously, like she can’t help it. “I know, Ransom.”

“Harlan wouldn’t be happy with the way you’re acting.” He hadn’t planned on saying that, but he’s suddenly sure it’s the absolute truth. Harlan always believed she was better than his family. He proved it, didn't he? 

Marta makes her forefinger and middle-finger pantomime-walk across his chest. “Harlan was very happy with the way I acted.”

“Whenever he was in a writing mood,” she continues, focusing on the puppet feet, “I’d prepare his favorite chair and put a pillow behind his back because I didn’t want him to get too stiff. And then I would crawl under the desk and wait there for when he needed me."

Ransom trembles. He can’t wet his throat. It’s like withdrawal. He needs the next shot. He needs to get out of his body.

“What - what did you do under the desk?”

Marta puts a finger to her lips and warns him to be quiet, otherwise the words will become images and bad dreams and he will get in trouble.

She’s dressed up like a French maid, little black poodle skirt riding up her thighs revealing the straps of her pantyhose. Harlan parts the flimsy fabric and gives her a playful slap on the ass and Marta leans her elbows on the desk and invites him to try again, this time with _feeling_.

Ransom pulls her hips into his lap and slaps her hard, making the flesh tremble. He slaps her again, making her almost slip off him. She giggles. He wraps one arm around her waist and slaps her until his hand goes numb and she keeps mewling, making little impatient noises, like she wants him to tear off her skin, and his name on her lips sounds like “ _Harlan_ ” and in fact, yes, she's purring it. 

He screams and thrashes against the confines of the dream, wishing he could kill his grandfather before he was old enough to father children and just like in those stupid time travel paradoxes prevent his own existence.

Somehow, she has distilled his nightmares into their purest expression.

The vintage is just right.

She helps him shuffle to the bathroom. His size dwarfs her. He leans his whole body on her shoulders. He could contain her, could shrink her down to size and put her in his pocket, could step on her like a bug. But bugs never seem to die when you do that. She doesn’t crack. She carries him. Her small feet get in the way, or she makes him stumble on purpose. He falls down several times and she has to pick him up, put him back together. He claws at her shirt, mouth slobbering against her ear and Marta pats his cheek.

“Don’t be a child.”

He mumbles something incomprehensible, feels like he’s going to spill his guts.

Her hands pull off his shirt and he can smell himself, a sweet, decaying animal smell, urine and talcum powder. 

She helps his naked body into the tub, hand on his back. The water is unbearably hot, just right, just how he likes it. He lands with an inelegant thud, splashing water everywhere.

Marta pouts affectionately. “You’re such a baby.”

“And you’re a vindictive cunt,” he says, softly, sinking into the water.

Marta presses the bar of soap to his lips. “Let’s wash off that potty mouth.”

He tastes potassium salts and glycerin and her fingers coaxing his mouth open.

She dunks his head in the water and watches his nakedness, runs her fingers over the lower half of his belly, making his hips stutter.

When he comes up for air, she’s pouring shampoo into his scalp and it makes his eyes sting.

“Can’t you control yourself?” she asks scathingly, digging her nails into his head and he feels ashamed and angry and wants to take her hands and put them around his cock so she can take care of that too.

But he doesn’t.

He’s afraid of her, of what she’d do.

It’s a slowed down melody, chopped up, dreamlike syncopated…but it’s the same song.

 _Pretty woman..._ _I don't believe you, you're not the truth_  
 _No one could look as good as you_  
 _Mercy!_

And when the singer growls, it sounds like an animal in pain.

And he remembers.

It was one of those interminable Christmas parties where each gift was paper-wrapped and price-tagged. The Thrombeys were in high spirits. Marta was there too, holding a mug of spiced wine for show. There was even a bit of dancing, Walt moving like a robot around a skittish Joni, trying to look like he's an easy-going guy. When Ransom had enough, he took his then sidepiece up the stairs to find a private corner. And some little devil whispered to him that it would be funny to go into Marta’s room. It was down the hall from Harlan’s attic. He could just say he drunkenly stumbled in and didn’t know where he was and saw the bed and –well, one thing led to another. And he wasn’t lying, he really _was_ that drunk, but not drunk enough not to notice the shadowy figure watching him from the doorway.

The same song was playing downstairs.

The funny thing is Marta could have said something. She could have shouted, could have called everyone up, could have caused a commotion. Sure, she’s never been one for scandal, but he expected her to at least tell him to get out of the room.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there, watching him like a hungry mouse, cheek pressed up against the door frame.

He remembers now. He remembers fucking what’s-her-name with the kind of drive he hadn't had since college. He thrived on being watched _in flagrante delicto,_ especially by a do-gooder like Marta. 

“I r-remember,” he rasps. “I remember what I did. I'm sorry, okay? You can stop playing that song.”

She’s sitting in an armchair across the room, reading her book.

"What song?" 

Ransom knows it's still playing somewhere, even if he can't trace its source. 

He lifts his chin from the floor and realizes he’s naked, lying there, on the bear rug. There’s a small fire in the fireplace.

"Can we talk about it?" 

Marta turns a page. “Let me finish this chapter.”

“I – I didn’t mean to upset you. Honestly, I wanted you – to be the one I was fucking into that cheap mattress.” 

And even as he’s struggling with the crude, childish lie, he knows it’s the truth, because given the option, he would have taken Marta absolutely every fucking time. He remembers how sick with want he felt every time he caught a glimpse of her climbing up those attic stairs, jealous of her and for her.

“Ransom, be quiet.”

And he obeys. He leans back on the bear rug, splays his limbs. He poses for her, firelight glinting off his newly-minted prison body, muscles and gristle and deep lines of grime. He could be the tortured subject of her art classes. 

Marta finally looks up. And her cheeks grow rosy. Her eyes take him in, all of him.

He realizes she’s always watched him that way. She’s never been immune to him. No one would make such an elaborate effort for someone they found indifferent.

It’s just that he did some bad things along the way and, in order for her to be okay with that, she has to drain the bad out of him. Has to sap the puss out of him, has to make him shed the bad blood. 

People have all sorts of outlets. Maybe this is hers.

“I know what you did,” he says, tongue heavy in his mouth. “You drugged me…but you also gave me stimulants. That’s why I’m…”

And he looks down at his stiff cock.

Marta leans her chin in the palm of her hand. “Or maybe that’s just you.”

Ransom grins. “No. It’s _all_ you, Cabrera.”

Marta toys with the end of her braid. “That’s the thing. You're unpredictable. Who know which way you'll go? I have to make sure you don't hurt anyone."

“So…you’re going to incapacitate me forever?”

“No, not exactly. Just until you're better.”

But they both know the truth. That’s never going to happen. Ransom leans back on his elbows, exposing himself completely. “Afraid of setting me loose on an unsuspecting world?”

She cocks her head. “That, and I don’t think you’d survive a single day.”

“I survived prison.”

“Prison is not that hard for someone like you. Living in the world without hurting people…that’s different.”

Ransom chuckles. “So what, you'll keep me here indefinitely? I’m going to be your crazy woman in the attic?”

_The attic._

And every lock slides into place.

“Fuck. I’m – I’m supposed to replace him, aren’t I?”

Marta taps her fingers against her cheek. “Replace who?” 

Ransom's eyes glaze over. “I helped kill him. So I have to take his place, don’t I?”

Marta doesn’t say anything. She just watches him.

Ransom laughs hysterically. “Holy shit. Holy fucking _shit_. You want me to be Harlan. Then you can take care of me and watch me die slowly.”

Marta frowns in distaste. “Maybe you just need to go to bed early.”

Ransom swallows. He’s really fucking terrified and still _definitely_ aroused because she’s absolutely right about him.

He kicks off the rug, stumbles away from her, tries to crawl-run.

He doesn’t get far.

He doesn’t intend to get far.

He lets himself slide to the floor, weak like water. He waits for her to crouch down next to him - and then he grabs her.

They roll on the carpet like pieces on a board, fighting to stay on top, and he pins her under him, pouring all his strength in this one move, the only move he has.

They’ve been here before. He plunged a prop knife into her chest and made a fool of himself. He could’ve sworn she was almost disappointed it wasn’t real, because Marta Cabrera only wants real things. She won’t settle for makeshifts. If she can’t have the original, she will only settle for the grandson.

They breathe harshly against each other’s mouths.

“You’re a little fucking weirdo,” he says.

“Ditto,” she mumbles breathlessly.

And it’s very sweet and very true.

He settles his nakedness against her fully-clothed body. His cock chafes between her thighs. She snakes one leg around his ankle, giving him permission. He rubs himself against her, like a cat in heat. Marta takes his cock shyly in her hand, almost like she’s experimenting, and Ransom growls a fettered growl, chains digging into his flesh. He lowers his head in the hollow of her neck, latching his mouth to the side of her jaw and they move to the rhythm of a dancing song, _pretty woman, won’t you pardon me? pretty woman, I couldn’t help but see…that you look lovely as can be…_

And she makes him last a long time, somehow her fingers press right down on the pulse of him, until he has to beg. And she patiently tells him he can’t come on her jeans, because that would be _messy_ , and he growls that he can’t fucking hold it in anymore, and so she pushes him off her.

Ransom is ready to fucking _sob_ if she leaves him like that.

But no, she is, to the end, an irreproachable caregiver.

She makes him lie down on his back and she takes his cock in both hands and brings it close to her mouth, opens those baby whore lips and just fucking _waits_ , and he’s babbling out loud about that perfect virgin mouth, how much he wants to break it in, how much he wants to choke it with his cum every single day, rosy and pink and perfect. And he says her name as the first drops land on her tongue.

Marta closes her mouth around his cock and swallows, and Ransom desperately sinks his fingers in her hair. 

“Please - please tell me this is real,” he breathes out at the end.

Marta wipes her mouth. She bends her finger towards him. Ransom grips the side of her neck and brings her close. He opens his mouth to kiss her and Marta parts her lips and pours the milky load into his mouth, feeds her feeble baby, and he swallows it with a thankless groan and kisses her anyway.

They brush their teeth together in the downstairs bathroom. They clean their mouths thoroughly.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” he asks. He doesn't want to hold her. He wants her to fall asleep next to him and he wants to be awake and he wants to watch her every breath. 

“No, you need your rest. But I’ll be watching you.”

His shoulders slump.

Marta runs her fingers down the side of his arm. “If you’re nice and good, I’ll wake you up in the morning with breakfast in bed.”

Did she ever say that to Harlan?

Yeah, probably.

Definitely.

Fuck it. Who cares?

“Pancakes?” he wonders out loud.

“Whatever you want,” she murmurs in that dove-like coo that means a million horrible things.

Yeah, she knows what he wants.

Ransom trims his beard in the mirror and then passes the small scissors to her.

“You look very dashing,” she says, rather condescendingly.

He rolls his eyes. “Just give me the gown.”

She slips Harlan’s monogrammed dressing gown over his shoulders and ties the cordon for him. She helps him settle in Harlan’s favorite chair, puts a pillow behind him. 

Ransom blows the dust off the typewriter.

“How do I even start?”

Marta kisses the top of his head. She thinks she saw a white hair that morning.

“Think about the kind of horrible things you would do and then write about people who prevent those horrible things from happening.”

“It’s that easy?” he drawls.

She nods. “That’s what Harlan told me. You put the poison in, and then you find the antidote, page by page.”

Ransom whistles. “Sounds like you could do it better than me, Nurse Ratched.”

“Of course I could,” she says, matter-of-factly. “But you will do it to please me, won’t you, Harlan?”

Ransom grinds his teeth. She’s slipped the name in several times this week, whether conscious or no. And he hates how much he secretly likes it, how much the leash tightens just right, caters to his every need. At least she doesn't call him _Hugh_. But it does sting a little, because just that morning he fucked her blind against the kitchen counter and really worked hard to make her come before him and see those rosy lips go slack, and now she’s acting like that was someone else. Maybe it was.

He doesn’t really know who he is anymore. All he knows is that he’s a Thrombey, _the_ original Thrombey, the only one that matters, the enfeebled master of the house who depends entirely on his nurse. He is hers. 

Just like she wanted.

Marta leaves him chained to the desk with a dreamy smile on her face. 

He likes her happy.

She hums under her breath the same old ditty. 

_Pretty woman...look my way....p_ _retty woman, say you'll stay with me...._

Yes, he'll stay. 

And one day, he'll find a hammer big enough to break that sound into a million pieces.

He rolls up the fresh sheet of paper and types her name, one letter at a time.

Over and over again. 


End file.
